


Warriors & Witches

by FizzyLemon, IShipThem



Category: Sister Claire (Webcomic)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-15
Updated: 2015-10-15
Packaged: 2018-04-26 13:58:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5007385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FizzyLemon/pseuds/FizzyLemon, https://archiveofourown.org/users/IShipThem/pseuds/IShipThem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sarah Dubs and Lau make a beautiful sparkly baby</p><p>or</p><p>Wyst babysits Luiza for a day; magick ensues</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It’s been a long day.   
  
Those that have colds are fighting valiantly to be rid of them, and those that don’t are doing their best to steer clear. All in all, Wystera is exhausted. Her hands have new, barely bandaged wounds from her battle with the rose bushes. Her supply of witch hazel is catastrophically low, and dandelions are threatening an invasion. At least she can take the time to eat. She has a lump of dough that’s nearly the size of her head receiving the brunt of her frustration, and flour is slowly dominating her kitchen. “Chocolate,” She decides, fetching the chips from a cupboard. “Or maybe I should add fruit?”

Before she has the chance to choose, however; there’s a knock at the door. Something polite, not heavy enough to be a child, but insistent enough to convey hurry. Wyst frowns at her snack and wipes the flour onto her skirt, and nearly before she’s at the door she knows who it is. She hears the voices on the other side, and her frown is wiped clean by one of her favorite sights. Luiza. 

Although, it doesn’t seem as though Luiza is as thrilled by whatever is about to take place as she is. “Hello, little love. Are you in need of something?”

 Luiza’s face, though stormy just a moment ago, clears at the sight of her. “Hi, Aunt Wyst!” she says in a cheerful bell, rushing in for a hug. Her backpack, hanging on the crook of one elbow and full to nearly bursting, almost goes flying in her hurry. Then, arms firmly around Wyst’s waist, she looks up at her and says with a dramatic sigh: “Papa wants to get rid of me.”

 “I  _do not,_ ” Maurice says at once, “want to get rid of you.” He gives Wyst an apologetic look. “Sorry to burst in like that on you, Wyst. I, hm. See - I might be in need of a babysitter.”

 She laughs and ushers Luiza inside. At once her irritated thoughts have been pushed aside. “A babysitter? Your little warrior isn’t coming along?” The biggest thing she misses about living with Sabine’s family is the company. “For the day?”

 “For the night, actually,” Maurice says. He’s turning red already, and Luiza, grumpy, puts her head against Wyst’s breast. She’s wearing a hijab today; a beautiful pale green with white flowers around the edge. Pointing at it, Luiza explains:

 “I  _was_  gonna sleep over at grandmère’s,” she says. “But she got sick. And Papa says I can’t stay home alone while he and Dad dine out. I’m old enough already! Right?” She looks up at Wyst expectantly. “ _Right?”_

 “Home alone? All night? When it gets dark and cold?” She places a kiss against her cheek. “No, this just means Papa is allowing mischief. I’m baking, but I don’t know what yet,” She takes the backpack. “Come help me decide?”

 Luiza perks up at once, sorely tempted - but not yet ready to let go of her temper. “I’m not scared of the night. I’m ten already. And I have my sword!” She gives her Papa another grumpy look. Then, to Wyst: “But if  _you_  are scared, then I’ll protect you.”

 “You always know just what I’m thinking, sweetheart,” She gestures towards the little kitchen with a smile. “I have a delicious dough ready. but it’s lacking something. Do I want chocolate, or raisins?” To Maurice she raises her eyebrows. “All night? I can’t promise we won’t go to the beach. The moon should be full tonight,”

 Maurice hesitates: “Hum, that’s important for magical reasons, right?” he asks. Then: “I’m  _really_  sorry to burst in like that; I wouldn’t ask, but it’s mine and Pedro’s wedding anniversary, and we’ve had–” He stops; has a very suspicious coughing fit, and goes even redder than before. “… _plans_ … for weeks now, and I couldn’t find anyone else.” He takes a peek at Luiza, to make sure she’s not listening. “Will she be any bother, Wyst?”

 The Witch can’t help but look offended. “Bother? Why would she be a bother? If anything she’ll be a help. She seems to know better than I which shells have crabs and which don’t,” Before Maurice can protest further she’s nudging him toward the door. “Luiza, your Papa has given permission for mischief and the beach! Give your goodnights, love?”

 “The beach?!” Luiza says, running back from the kitchen at a thousand miles per hour. “Really?  _At night?”_ Her tone suggests Wysteria has just given her the key to the Kingdom. “Oh, let’s go, let’s go,  _let’s go,_  please!”

 “Give me a kiss first,” Maurice says, and Luiza, all her dissatisfaction forgotten, rushes into his arms and peppers his face with kisses. “Obey Wyst while you’re out, okay? Promise me?” She nods, and he fixes her hijab, her collar, then cups her cheeks. “And I’ll come pick you up in the morning, all right?”

  _“After_ breakfast,” Luiza demands.

 “After breakfast,” he agrees, and smooches her cheek one last time. “Thank you again for watching her, Wyst.”

“Go, go! We have planning to do before we go out.” Once Maurice has gone down the road she deposits Luiza’s backpack on her small bed and joins her in the kitchen. “Now love, are we doing chocolate or fruit? I think I’d like to braid it. Have I taught you that yet?”

 Luiza pulls up a chair and kneels in it, peering down at the dough: “Chocolate  _and_ fruit,” she declares. “Bananas! Bananas are great with chocolate.” Then she shakes her head no. “But I know how to braid hair,” she offers.

 “It’s just the same,” Wyst promises. “But we’re going to make this special, so neither of us gets sick. Maybe we’ll bring some to grandmère?” She’s kneading at the dough again, though gentler now. “Can you fetch me some peppermint from the garden? And a pinch of chamomile?”

 “On it!” Luiza says, and dashes off like a little comet, her dress fluttering around her heels. She knows where most everything is already, and her fingers - scarred more from swordfighting than gardening - collect the leaves and petals nimbly. Then she runs back to Wyst, all in one breath, and jumps back on her chair. “There you go, Auntie! What are they for?”

 She takes the offering and puts the handful into a mortar, and crushes the bits together. “Peppermint is for a stuffy nose and aches, like when you get sick and you hurt all over.” The peppermint oil is as fragrant as the chocolate pieces waiting patiently in a bowl. “The chamomile is for when your throat hurts, and you get a fever.  _I’m_  using it in the bread, so I can add magick in too,” She can’t help but smile around the little girl. “This way we’ll be sure we don’t get sick,”

 Daintly, Luiza leans forward and sniffs, then takes big breaths to fully enjoy the fragance. Her face goes thoughtful somewhat - she backs away again, and watches Wyst ground the plants as if something’s dancing at the tip of her tongue. It doesn’t take long at all: “Aunt Wyst?” she calls, in that way only children will call you. That particular inflection that hints at a question to come.

 She scoops the ground plants into her hands and sprinkles it over the dough, along with just enough magick to hopefully keep the worst of the sniffles at bay. Wysteria isn’t a stranger to the tone. She’s heard it more than once, and knows not to catch Luiza’s eye lest she spoil the moment. “Yes, sweetheart?” She folds the dough over itself.

 “Aunt Wyst, you’re magick, aren’t you?” Luiza asks. She’s balancing on her knees on the chair, swaying back and forth to a rhythm. It’s spelling disaster, it is: but children, by virtue of being children, are  _always_ spelling disaster - so.

“Mmm, yes. I suppose I am,” She motions for the chocolate while she contemplates whether she has bananas or not. “Why?” The chips fold to the buttery mix without hesitation. Now she knows for certain she wants to add fruit. “Did someone say something to you?”

“No,” Luiza says, stills swaying. Then, promptly ignoring her question, she goes on in her own train of thought: “Did you  _always_  know you were magick?” 

She’s gone to hunt down the bananas and has her hands on two just ripe ones when Luiza poses her question. Wyst has some idea of where this is going. “No, not always. I thought everyone could use the plants like I did. Then ah, then my Mama got very, very sick,” She passes Luiza a bowl and one of the bananas, and sets to work mashing the other with her hands. “I made her tea, and when she could talk she told me that what I could do was special,”    
  
The bananas go in next, and with everything mixed together she pulls the dough into three pieces. She rolls one between her hands as an example, and the two set to work rolling out the three lumps into long, slender snakes. “Can you do something special?” 

“Me?” Luiza says. She looks so absolutely  _astonished_  Wyst would ask, it’s enough to make you want to squish her.  _How did you guess?!_ her eyes seem to say. But, quick as it came, she covers it up: “No. Why?” She goes back to furiously rolling her dough. “You think I can?” 

Wysteria nods wisely, trying purposely to look somber and not break into smiles and dancing. “You’re a special girl, Luiza. Actually, I would be very surprised if you did nothing special at all,” She shows her how to pinch the three snakes at one end and braid them together, and once it’s finished she brushes the whole thing with a scrambled egg yolk and a bit of water. It goes into the oven before she speaks again. “You wouldn’t fib to  _me_ , would you?” She asks, dusting the rest of the flour from her hands. It sends a small cloud up in the kitchen. 

Luiza’s face is still red from the compliment, and pensive despite her trying to cover it - she laughs at the flour cloud and reaches to clap at it, making it dance and swirl some more before it disperses. Only then does she acknowledge Wyst’s question. Her hands twist the fabric of her clothes, and her feet dance on the spot, and her eyes only glance up at her. “I can do lots of special things,” she says at last. “Like sword fighting! And basket weaving! And– and– and Nib said she’d teach me how to make plaster for cuts.” 

She stops, but it’s not the end of her words. They seem to be rolling around in her tongue, and Luiza munches and munches and munches on them. “Aunt Wyst, can you  _not_  be magick, and then start doing magick when you get grown up?” A pause. “More grown up? Not  _all_  grown up - just, not until  _after_  you’re a little bit older.” 

Wyst crouches down and pulls her into a hug. “I think you don’t have to be born with magick. I think it comes to some people slowly. I was almost your age when I discovered it,” The bread has some time to bake. “I know someone who was very, very old when it started for her. She even had wrinkles by her eyes,” She pulls at her own and sticks out her tongue. “Guess what it was!” 

Luiza giggles; makes a face back at her, squinting and sticking out her tongue. “Her magick?” she asks. “Was it– ah– was it making cookies for her grandchildren? Magick cookies!” She smiles at her own idea. “That– that, ahh– that they could eat as many as they wanted and never get sick?” 

“Ooh, you were close,” She grins. “I wish  _I_  could make magick cookies,” She leads Luiza out to the garden - because where else would she spend her time? - and starts to weed the honeysuckle plants. “She knew who would have children, and if those children would be well and happy. She knew how many children they would have, and  _sometimes_ ,” She plucks a white, puffy dandelion and passes it to her guest. “Sometimes she could hear them,” 

Luiza sucks in a dramatic breath. “ _Really?”_  she says, whispering as if they’re sharing conspiracies. “That’s  _cool_ magick!  _I’d_ like to talk to babies!” Taking a big breath, she blows on her dandelion, sending its seeds spiraling off into the air. Luiza smiles at them. “So–” She folds her sleeves again, getting them up to her elbows, and scoots over to help Wyst with the weeds. “So– so knowing things other people don’t know can be a sort of magick?”  
  
She can’t fight the cheshire grin any longer. “That’s a very, very  _special_  sort of magick,” She’ll make tea with the dandelions later, so she lays them neatly to the side. “It’s a wonderful way to help people. People need to tell me what’s wrong before I can help them. Otherwise, I might do something wrong,” Her fingers brush over the flowers of the sweet, green plant as if for reassurance. “If I knew before they did…well…” Wyst sits back on her heels. “Did you…did you hear something, Luiza? Or see something?” 

Luiza doesn’t look startled this time; she does blush, however, the spitting image of her Papa. From zero to strawberry in the blink of an eye. Sitting back, she looks up at Wyst, shyness and insecurity and eagerness all wrapped up in her expression. “I don’t know,” she says. “Auntie Wyst, you know when someone you like is sad, and you get sad too?”  
  
“Mhm. Like when you were having bad dreams? When you were worried about your Dad?”

Pouting at her own thoughts, Luiza squeezes closer to her. “I don’t know. Maybe? It’s because–” She stops herself short, rearranging her thoughts. “When you are sad because someone you like is sad, first you have to realize they’re sad. Right?” She waits for Wyst to nod before going on. “But what if you just get sad, and then _because_ you get sad you realize the other person is sad? Or what if– what if you know when they’re worried? Even if they didn’t tell you? You just know?” 

She looks down at her lap, eyebrows knotting with hard thought. “I asked grandmère, and she said you can usually tell when someone you love is worried. But it’s not just people I love! It’s all the peoples! I mean– it’s everyone.” She starts drawing in the dirt, flowers and hearts and swords. “Sometimes, I feel things and I don’t know why I’m feeling them, or I don’t even understand what they are. And I think maybe that’s because they’re not my feelings at all.” Her eyes, when she looks up at Wyst, are big and wondering. “Do you think that’s magick, Auntie?” 

Now she’s proud. So proud, it feels like her heart has grown in her chest and is thundering for the whole town to hear. “Oh yes, Luiza. I think that’s certainly magick,” 

Luiza’s looking at her with a mix of - it’s hard to tell. Maybe excitement, but also fear. It’s as if the possibility of magick of her very own it’s too much to believe all at once, like a miracle or a dream you can’t tell for sure if it’s a dream. “Auntie–” Luiza starts, breathless. “What about making other people feel like you’re feeling? Is that magick, too?” 

“Why wouldn’t it be?” She asks, and wraps her arms around Luiza to draw her close. “Like, say, making Papa feel sad when you’re upset?” She tickles under her arm where she knows it tickles the most. “Or reminding your Auntie she needs everything in her bread and not just something little?” 

Luiza giggles, squirming at the tickles as if she’s fighting a furious octopus rather than a loving aunt. She grins up at Wyst, face red from laughing. “Yeah! That too,” she says. “And make people angry when I’m mad– I think I did it with my friend Lia. I didn’t mean to. But I think I did.” She rests her head against Wyst’s shoulder. “I was mad at Jean because he told me I was lying about the present Queen Sylvia gave me. I was  _not_ lying,” she adds, as if Wyst doesn’t know that already. “And I was mad the whole time I was making Lia’s friendship bracelet. And when I gave it to her–!”

 Luiza straightens up, looking back at Wyst with hushed excitement. “When I gave it to her, she got mad at Jean, too! The whole day! And she wasn’t before.” Luiza lowers her voice to a whisper: “I think it was ‘cause of me, Auntie.”

“Well,” Wyst mimics her, dropping her voice to a hush. “It most likely was. What happens when I put magic into candy, Luiza?” 

She gives it proper thought, her eyebrows once again knotting together. “When you put magic into candy, and people eat it, it stops them from having nightmares,” she says at last. “It stops all sorts of bad things happening to them. Right? So it’s like your magic goes into the people?”  
  
“Just right. If I wanted, it wouldn’t just be for nightmares. Like I put healing in the bread just now,” Wyst nods. “So, if you put anger toward someone into a bracelet, then whoever gets that bracelet will get that anger,” 

Luiza nods, hard, as if they’re in class and she wants to show she’s understood. “But Aunt Wyst,” she says. “You know what you’re doing when you make magick, right? You know what you’re putting in the candies?” She adds the next part with outrage, like telling tales: “I don’t even know when I’m doing it!”  
  
“Well, I didn’t know at first. You just need to…” Her grin widens. “Oh. Oh yes, Papa gave us permission for mischief right? We’re going to practice!” She stands, pulling Luiza with her. “We’ll have a bit of fun here until the bread is finished, and then we’re going out!” 

“We are?!” Luiza asks, delighted. “To the beach! Right?” She skips as she follows behind Wyst. “We are going to practice magick in the beach?” 

“We’re going to the beach the moment the sun sets. First we must bring your grandmere a bit of bread, then we have to practice in the town. I’d like to know what you pick up,” She smiles as they disappear into the house. “And sunset will be here before you know it,” 

“Let me get my sword!” Luiza says. She rushes towards her backpack, pulling stuff out until she finds her belt - which she fastens over her dress - then secures her wooden sword in it. “This is my practice sword,” she explains to Wyst, putting a hand on its hilt with a solemn expression. “I can use a real one, but only with supervision.” Then, fixing her hijab, she adds: “Is the bread ready, Auntie?” 

“Not yet. Bread is a patient treat,” Wyst explains, admiring her evening charge’s sword. “Just like fighting. It’s precise,” 

Luiza nods, still solemn, acknowledging Wyst’s true mastery in the art of making bread. Then she fidgets in place. Cliks her tongue. “What do we do until then?”   
  
There’s a mischievous glint in Wysteria’s eye that only Luiza is ever really allowed to share. “I have new makeup,” She says, walking toward a box that might be for anything  _but_  cosmetics. “Lots of blues and greens and a stick so black it might actually be a piece of shadow!” She digs into the box and her hands come out full of smaller ones, and she spreads them across the table top. “We could play dress up? Something to match your hijab?” 

Luiza giggles, jumping on the bed and bouncing a couple times to drive her point home. “I can’t wear  _make-up_  with my hijab, Aunt Wyst,” she says, savouring the particular delight of knowing something a grown-up doesn’t. “You’re supposed to be  _modest_  when you wear it. But that’s okay!” Reaching up, she undoes the knots as easy as untying a lace. “I’ll take it off first.” 

She does just that, and then takes her time folding it and rolling it up so it doesn’t wrinkle - puts it away safely out of harm’s way. Then hurries back like a speeding arrow. “I want to  try something green!” 

By the time the bread is ready, they’ve tried every color - including the three different greens. Wysteria has fuchsia around her eyes like warpaint, with an exaggerated black line around her eyes that makes them look ferocious and wild. For once she  _looks_  like a Witch. A proper witch with power oozing from her pores, and not just a Flower Witch who enchants the candy of children. She doesn’t share the knowledge that she knows how to be a savage Witch with Luiza. She doesn’t share that with anyone, even though she’s certain a few have guessed.   
  
“There!” She cries, triumphant, when she pulls a golden-brown loaf from the oven. The smell of mint and chocolate almost overpowers the bananas. Almost. “I say it’s almost as beautiful as you are,” Her hands are on her hips. “Thoughts? You did do quite a bit of the work,” 

Luiza leans forward and makes a dramatic gesture out of smelling it. “I think grandmère will feel so much better, she’s gonna jump from bed and make a dozen carpets!” Then she closes her eyes and breathes out. “Hmmmm, it smells yummy.”  
  
“Agreed! Here,” She’s too quick to pull pieces off for them, but doesn’t mind when she burns the tips of her fingers. “Blow on it, don’t scald your mouth. I’m going to wrap the rest of this up,” She finds a bit of clean cloth the color of the sun, with swirls of bright pink and blue where she was attempting to embroider something, and carefully twists it around the remainder of the braid. It goes into the basket with a small pot of honey and room for flowers. She tames her wild curls into a haphazard braid. The loose ends tickle at her ears.   
  
“Sword at the ready?” Wyst inquires, gathering up the sachets she needs to deliver still. “Proper beach wear?” 

Luiza shrugs her backpack on, now considerably less budgy with half its contents left behind in the bed. Her face is washed clean again, her hijab back in place. She copies the Royal Guard’s salute, straightening up and going on tiptoe to look as tall as possible. “Everything’s in proper shape, Aunt Wyst!” she says. “Where are we going first?“ 

“To your grandmère’s house. Pick whatever flowers you’d like from the garden. I’ll spell them for sweet dreams,” She gathers up a tightly woven basket for the beach, and several empty jars. “Then we have to deliver sachets to a few people in town. Maman and Oscar need one or two,” She leads them out of the small apartment and through the shop-front, which she locks behind them. “So, lead the way, Soldier!” 

Taking her sword in one swift motion, Luiza squares her shoulders and points it forward. “Make way for the Lady!” she announces to no one in particular, before offering Wyst her arm the very same way she’s seen her Dad do to her Papa. “Is Oscar gonna be there?” she asks, feigning nonchalance. 

Luiza’s immense crush on Oscar has been going strong for at least three years now, and Pedro has told Wyst, in the most absolute confidence, that he’s caught her writing their names together in her school notebook more times than he cares to count. These days, Luiza’s been getting better at actually  _talking_ to Oscar - they can get through an entire conversation without her turning into a stuttering tomato - and it seems that it only fueled the fire. 

“Well, I hope so,” Wysteria pouts, marching alongside the girl. “She’s promised to pay me in lemon cakes,” She’s eager to discuss more of her magick. If she can make people angry at someone else, can she get them to  _love_  someone else? She wonders if she’s ever attempted such a thing with Oscar, and has to fight back the urge to laugh at the thought of a stammering, red-faced Luiza thinking very, very hard about liking Oscar. 

They make it to Luiza’s grandmère in no time at all, and the lady fusses and dotes over her worse even than Maurice, showering her in compliments over her hijab; her choice of flowers; her thoughtfulness and her most exquisite bread. Luiza giggles under her grandmère’s kisses and takes it the easy way well-loved children do. At last, her grandpère takes her back to bed, and Luiza kisses her goodbye one last time before they’re off. “See? I told you it’d make grandmère lots better!” she tells Wyst, tugging her by the hand down the street. “Now we’re delivering the sachets, right?”  
  
“You were right, as usual,” She agrees with a nod and an added skip to her step. “The children first, then we’ll end with Maman. She’ll want to fawn as much as your grandmère did!” They go from house to house, delivering spelled treatments in return for everything from money to eggs, to a handful of seeds to scatter in her garden. 

They come upon the place Wysteria called home for far too short a time, and she can’t help but pause at the gate. It’s such a vibrant place - it’s hard to believe that just a few short years ago that happiness was threatened. “Sabine?” She calls, ushering Luiza into the kitchen. “I have something for that nasty cold,” 

Luiza, though usually she’d be jumping around like a frog trying to spot Oscar, stays still, hand in hand with Wyst. Looks up at her, pensive. There’s something wondering about her face, as if she’s trying to listen to a far-off song that almost sounds familiar. But she says nothing. 

“Well, I know someone is home,” Wyst mutters, pulling out the remaining sachets from her basket. There’s only a few, but she knows they’re potent enough to ward the house against whatever is going around. “The others might still be working,” She explains to Luiza in particular, so that she’s not caught talking to herself again. 

“Maybe there’s someone in the garden,” Luiza says. She’s been here a couple times before; with Wyst, or Nib, or her Dad, accompanying Queen Sylvia. So it’s with no hesitation that she lets go of Wyst’s hand and rushes to the kitchen window, throwing half her body outside in search of someone. “Ah! There she is!” Turning back, Luiza points frantically out the window. “Aunt Wyst, there’s Maman!” Then, leaning back out: “MAMAN! Maman! We came to visit you! Over here!” 

If Sabine were ill, the others would be cloistering her indoors. “I wonder who’s sick then,” Wyst can never resist the garden here. She’s as familiar with the rich, dark soil as her own. Her fingers know the plants as easily as her mouth knows how to whisper enchantments. The Witch joins Luiza at the window and waves. “Do you want any help?” 

Maman looks up at their calls from where she’s kneeling in the grass; a brilliant smile colors her face as she catches sight of them. Sitting back, gardening utensils and weeds littering the soil and around her, she greets all warm and cheerful: “Wyst! Luiza! How lovely to see you, dear hearts. Wait only a minute, I’ll– ah, yes, here comes my savior.” She chuckles as Luiza jumps the window in one swift motion, hurrying over to her side. “Thank you, little love. My back isn’t what it used to be.” 

“You’re welcome,” Luiza says, chevalier, offering her arm to Maman and helping her back to her feet. She’s not yet that tall, but she’s plenty strong; her knees don’t even wooble when she takes the woman’s full weight for a split second. “I’ll get your tools for you!” 

“Oh, dear heart, you don’t– oh, well, you’ll be faster than me.” Maman laughs as Luiza dashes around her faster than a rabbit, grabbing the tools and weeds and basket all at once. “Mind the sharp things, yes? That’s a dear. Yes, you can leave them right in the table.” She smiles at Wyst, coming through the kitchen door behind a very excited Luiza, and opens her arms. “And how are you doing today, my dear Wysteria?”

“I’m all the better for seeing you,” The moment she can she’s in the woman’s arms for a hug. She smells of sunshine - warm and bright. “Besides, I have a guest for the night,” She gestures to Luiza and grins. “We’re going to play at the beach once the stars come out. Who did I make medicine for if you’re up to your elbows in dirt?”

 Maman sighs, putting her hands to her hips. Luiza promptly worms under one of her arms, and she grins down at her, fitting her close. “It’s for Oscar, I’m afraid,” she says. “One too many rounds spent under the rain - she’s up in her room right now, hogging every blanket in the house, shivering like a wet cat. I’m just hoping Catharine doesn’t catch it.” A smile plays at the edge of her lips. “They do seem to want to share everything.”

Wyst purposely doesn’t look at how crushed Luiza will be with just the words. “Then I’ve done just as I should,” She says instead, leading Maman toward the sachets on the table. There are four of them, each a pale blue bag tied off with leather. They’re no bigger than her palm. “They’re all the same. Hang one at the front and back door, just above it, and one by the bed,” Glancing around the kitchen she frowns. “No fresh flowers today? I was hoping for something to sprinkle along the window,”

 Maman smiles, knowing, and gestures to the basket Luiza’s left carefully sitting at a chair. “Well, now, what do you think I was doing at the garden? Will you help me with them?” 

Luiza follows Maman’s eyes, spots the basket filled with flowers, then looks back at the sachets Wyst’s left by the table. She goes up and down on her tiptoes, bouncing in place as if about to jump - one, two, three, four. And then: “I can go hang one on Oscar’s bed,” she offers, eagerly, tugging at Maman’s elbows. “Is she sleeping, Maman? I won’t wake her up! I promise! I’ll be silent as a mouse.” 

Sabine exchanges a look with Wyst, laughter dancing in her eyes, and pats Luiza’s hand. “I don’t know if she’s sleeping, dear heart. Why won’t you go check on her for me? Yes? Won’t you see if you can make her eat something?”  
  
“I think that’s a good idea,” She busies herself with the flowers, plucking the petals to keep them whole. “Maman, do you have any of those cookies I brought last week? I know Oscar likes those,” Yellow and green light leaps from her fingers, and soon the kitchen smells not unlike Sabine - as bright and fresh as the garden. 

“On the tin by the window,” Maman tells Luiza, winking at her. “And if I make some tea, will you be so kind as to bring Oscar a cup?” 

“Sure!” Luiza says, still bouncing in place, her eyes glued to the staircase. She waits, impatiently, as Maman pours the tea - smelling of roses and vanilla and jasmine, and, in fact, much like Oscar if Luiza’s face is anything to go by. When Maman at last hands her the trail, she’s red as a strawberry.

They watch, although skillfully pretending not to, as she marches up to the stairs and halts at the foot of them like someone’s pulled on her string. Taking a deep breath, Luiza straightens her shoulders, then goes up, stepping ever so slowly her shoes make no noise. Finally, she disappears around the curve.

“You were right, Sabine,” Wyst says as she lays the petals tip to top beneath the window. “She has a hint of it,” Oh, she wants to  _laugh_! She’s so gleeful about it that she can’t stop smiling. “I’ll know how strong later tonight, but it’s there,” The flowers will keep the sickness from the air, and once they’ve browned and done their work she’ll toss them outside. “How sick is Oscar? Will Luiza wake her?” 

Maman laughs, and offers Wyst a cup of tea. “Oh, it’s but a bad cold. She’s had much worse than it.” Fetching a plate from the cupboards, Sabine arranges what’s left of her own lemon biscuits - leaving one for Catharine to find later - and puts the plate down by Wyst’s elbow. “Oh no, I think the biggest danger is that she sees Oscar’s nose running and her poor face looking very sad indeed, and all the glamour will be lost. But we’ll see. Oscar can manage to be charming even when she’s entirely disgusting from practice.” 

Taking a sip from her own cup, Sabine folds her hands around it, enjoying the warmth. “Magic it is, then?” she asks Wyst. “Well, what did I tell you, dear heart? I have yet to be wrong.” Then, with only a slightly smug smile; “What tipped you off?” 

She takes a bite of one of the cookies and sighs into the taste. “She told me, actually,” The leaves the tea to cool. “I don’t know that she’s said anything to Pedro or Maurice yet, but we discussed it over bread. Her grandmere got most of the loaf. If any of those feelings went into it, that poor woman will be itching to confess more than she probably cares to admit,” Wyst stretches her arms against her head and looks toward the stairs. “I’m glad you’re up and about. It’s a good thing to see,” 

Sabines gives her a warm look; an understanding one, and pats the chair besides her. “Thanks to you, in no small amount,” she says. The Witch moves to join her, and presses in close, if only to steal a second biscuit. “But it  _is_  good to be out and about. I was not made to sit and idle, Wyst, as I suspect neither were you.” She winks at her friend, then takes her hand in a gesture so easy it barely registers. “You were saying - if her feelings went into the bread? Is that what she can do?” 

“It seems to be,” She lowers her voice, and hopes Luiza is occupied and distracted. “She can feel how others are feeling, and cast her own feelings out,” Wyst troubles her lip between her teeth. “I’m not sure how to approach it,” 

Maman nods, her face becoming more solemn, and mimics Wyst’s tone: “It’s a precious gift indeed; but not an easy one, no. Not one she’d do well to boost.” She takes a long sip of her tea. “Well, if no one around her has noticed yet - but us, of course,” and here she adds a wink, “it can’t be too great a power. I think you have the right idea, Wyst. It’s best first to know how much she can do, so we know how much we should worry.” 

“Well, if I’m not blushing like your tomato plants by now then I don’t think it’s quite strong yet,” 

Maman lets out a great belly laugh at this, and upstairs, Luiza nearly jumps out of her bones at the noise. She catches herself in time, steadying the tray. Stares again at Oscar’s door, heart hammering - then, squeezing her eyes shut, she puts the tray against her hip and  _very carefully_  turns the knob.   
  
Oscar has looked much nicer. Much tidier. Less stuffy. She’s propped on a pile of pillows with barely a blanket missing from the pile consuming her. Beneath it she’s shivering and sweating in turn. “I think I’m dying,” She groans without opening her eyes. “I shall not live in this world another minute,” 

“ _Oh!”_ Luiza gasps, sounding as if someone’s just punched her in her young heart. “Oh, no! No, Oscar, please don’t die!” She runs to the bed, putting down the tray at the nightstand with maybe a little too much hurry. “What’s wrong? What’s hurting?” 

One eye peeks open at a voice that is decidedly not Catherine’s, and the blonde woman in the bed cracks a smile. Then sneezes. “Ah, Luiza! Nothing is so wrong that your bright smile can’t fix,” Suddenly she blushes, fully aware that beneath her mountain of comforters and quilts is only bedclothes. “You - ah - is Pedro here? Everything is alright, yes?” 

Luiza hovers over her, still looking worried sick. “Dad’s at home. Aunt Wyst brought me.” 

“Très bien! You aren’t alone then?” Another sneeze, and she reaches blindly for what’s left of her tissues. “I’m sorry, little one. I can’t practice with you today. Is your Dad teaching you well?” She finds the tissues and her hand makes a hasty retreat. 

Luiza follows her motions closer still than she does when they’re practicing. “Are you alright?” she asks. Worry is coming off her like heat waves. “You’re not dying? Is something hurting? Should I–” She gestures wildly, not knowing what to do with her hands. “Should I call Maman? I could call Aunt Wyst! I could go and get Nib!”  
  
“N-no! No, I’m not dying,” Either her fever is back, or she’s blushing for all together different reasons. “Non, t-that’s fine. You brought me something?” Her eyes dart frantically toward the tray. “Did Maman send something up?”

“Oh!” Startled out of her worry, Luiza’s suddenly reminded to be embarrassed. “Oh - oh, y-y-yes. I, hm. I brought tea.” Fumbling, she grabs for the blue sachet. “And- and- and this! Aunt Wyst made it.” She offers it to Oscar, her face pink, eyes to the ground. “It’s- It’s for hanging in your bed. For you to feel better.”

The swordswoman takes it from her with a quiet,  _“Merci,”_  and takes a cautionary sniff. Almost at once she feels hungrier than she has for a day. “Can you hang it there for me?” With her other hand she gestures toward a tack on the wall. It once held a small, dried bouquet. “Have you eaten?” 

Luiza shakes her head yes, and reaches for the sachet - Oscar’s fingers are hot when they brush hers, and she has to mind her breathing as to not start hyperventilating. Going on tiptoe, Luiza hangs the sachet and steps back. “I ate at Aunt Wyst’s,” she tells Oscar. “But I brought cookies for you.” 

“Cookies? Ah, you are not too full for cookies!” Eyes glittering, she tentatively pushes the blanket enough to show the shoulders of her nightgown. “Help me eat them?” Her hand pats the blanket beside her leg. 

Luiza can’t deny her a thing; but when she does sit down, she’s stiff as a plank. “Th-th-thank you,” she tells Oscar; or rather, tells her knees. 

“Thank  _you_ , Luiza,” She says, eagerly tucking into the offering. “Mmm, lemon! Exquisite!” She gathers the crumbs from the side of her mouth with one finger and wipes it on her pillow. “Is this your day, then? Caring for the sick?” 

The way Luiza’s watching her, you could practically see the hearts floating behind her; but she catches herself quickly. “I’m spending the day with Aunt Wyst,” she says. “Dad and Papa wanted to be  _alone.”_  The last bit she adds with the involuntary impatience of an only child. “I told Papa I’m old enough to stay home alone, but he said I couldn’t be by myself at night.”

“Ah, who would be better company for Aunt Wyst than you?” She passes one of the cookies to Luiza and claims a second. “Brave you are, yes? As fierce a warrior as your Dad. As clever as the Bright One, don’t you think?” The cookie is gone in the blink of an eye, and Oscar narrows hers at the innocuous sachet swinging in the draft. “What plans do you have for later? I’m certain you won’t be in Wyst’s apartment all evening,” 

Luiza’s face is letting off steam by this point. Really, is to no one’s surprise her poor little heart only gets more and more roped every passing year. “We’re going to the beach later,” she says, on automatic. Her brain is too busy getting lost into Oscar’s eyes to pay attention to what she’s saying. “Aunt Wyst said we would–” 

She stops all at once. Suddenly remembers what she’s talking about. 

“You would…?” Oscar encourages. 

To buy time, Luiza munches on her untouched cookie. Then, hesitantly: “Oscar, you’re not magick, are you?” 

“Magick? No, little one, although some say my sword is magicked,” She doesn’t have to add it’s those who fall to it that say so. “Are you magick?” The question emerges before she has a chance to think it through, and she frowns. Now where did that come from?

Luiza’s eyes snap open, wide like a rabbit caught in a trap. “Who? Me? No!” She stuffs her whole cookie in her mouth, fooling absolutely no one, then looks at Oscar with guilty eyes. “I mean–” She stops; swallows. Looks at the door. Looks at Oscar. Grabs another cookie. Munching at it like a little mouse, she looks up from under her eyelashes. "Maybe?” 

Oscar can’t hide her surprise. “Maybe? Maybe yes?” There’s only one left on the plate, and she’s too hungry to be polite. “Are you using plants like Wysteria?” 

Luiza shakes her head. "No. I don’t really know what I can do. I think I can understand how other people feel, but maybe that’s not magic.” She offers Oscar the rest of her cookie. “Aunt Wyst thinks it is.”

“Wysteria is clever. If she says it is magick, it is magick,” With the cookies finished she stretches out the kinks that sleeping too long will cause, and yawns. “What time is it?” There are fingers of pink and gold creeping in through the window. “Sundown already?” 

Turning around, Luiza gasps and bolts off the bed all at once: “Sundown! We can go to the beach!” She whips around to run to the door, then halts halfway through the bedroom and looks back at Oscar: “Hmmm. Oscar?” 

She’s sitting up properly now, the opportunity to over dramatise her illness lost. Besides, she can breathe through her nose again. “Yes, little one?” 

Luiza makes a show out of sticking her head outside, checking both sides thoroughly. Only then does she approach the bed; lowers her voice. “It’s a secret,” she tells Oscar. “So you can’t tell anyone.”

Her hair falls into her eyes as she nods. “Your secret is safe with me. I shall not even tell the queen,” She puts a finger to her lips. “I swear,”

Luiza’s smile is bright and entirely besotted and takes over her whole face when it comes. She looks up at the strand of hair that’s fallen on Oscar’s eyes - then looks back down, back up, back down, her fingers twitching in a dozen aborted motions.

Finally, in a gesture a tad too abrupt for gentleness, she reaches over and tucks it behind Oscar’s ear. Her face goes furiously red. “Thanks-for-the-cookies-hope-you-feel-better-bye-bye!” 

Then she turns and all but runs out of the room. 

Oscar is left to herself, growing redder and redder until she’s sure the fever is back and ducks beneath the blankets - hot food be damned. 

“Are you ready? How’s Oscar feeling?” Wysteria asks, helping Maman clean their dishes. “Maman thinks if she’s awake she might be wanting supper,” She dries her teacup and puts it neatly back in the cupboard. “Did you want to help, or go to the beach?” 

Luiza’s face is still so red, you’d think she was the one to be sick. “Beach,” she says promptly, running back to Wyst’s side. Then, realizing that probably sounded rude, adds: “Sorry. I mean, I’d like to go to the beach, Auntie.” She peeks at the vegetables Maman is slicing. “But I can help if you want to.” 

Laughing, Maman swoops her into an one-armed hug, smacking a kiss against her forehead. “No need, dear heart. You’ve been a great help already. Go have fun with your auntie, I’m sure the full moon will be calling for her soon enough.” 

“It already is,” Wyst admits with a laugh. “We might have time enough to collect a few crabs. If we hurry the seals won’t get them all. There might even be kelp left from the tide,” She wipes her hand on her skirt and gives Maman a fond kiss on the cheek. “Send for me if you start feeling feverish. Your garden would miss you if it lost you for an hour,” 

“I’m sure I’ll be more than fine,” Maman says, squeezing her hand. “Now go, go! Take the child to the beach. Collect crabs. Bring me some. And have fun!” 

Chuckling, Luiza takes Wyst’s hand and waves Maman bye-bye.   
  
Wyst pauses at the door, smiling down at the girl by her side. She watches how carefully she adjusts her hijab, looking as much like a Witch on a mission as she’s ever seen. “To the beach, then,” She gives Luiza’s hand a squeeze. “We’re going to  _dance_ ,”


	2. Chapter 2

There’s rain threatening the horizon as they cross the sand. Tongues of lightning flash brilliantly in the sky, but the only thing to hear is the waves.  Luiza watches the blueish light of them, hand-in-hand with Wysteria, not exactly with fear, but tinged with it. “Aunt Wyst,” she calls, “is it true if lightning hits the sand, it turns into glass?”

The older Witch’s face is upturned to the sky, her eyes closed and mouth wide as she breathes in the stormy weather and all the magick it carries. When she looks down at her little companion, her green eyes have gone as grey as the sea. “It is. I’ve seen it, once, and it was one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever touched. It’s spectacular. Like…like someone took paint and threw it against a wall. That’s the shape it takes,” She kicks off her shoes and adds them to her basket as they cross the stretch of sand. “Maybe we’ll get lucky tonight and find some,”  
  
Luiza smiles at her; a secret smile that feels as wild as lightning in the moonlight, as if she’s about to step into a dream and leave the world for good. She does no such thing; but she does kick off her shoes as well. Next comes her dress and her hijab, until she’s in her sleeping clothes. “They’re dark,” she says to Wyst, “it’s okay if they get wet.”

“That’s a good idea,” She agrees. She makes a knot in her blouse, and again in her skirt, so that the white skin on her legs and stomach is made whiter still in the darkness. “Crabs and kelp first, then we’ll talk about Magick,” Wyst gestures to a few Witches gathered together at the far end of the beach. “If you feel like it, we’ll talk to them too,” She lets her hair out of its plait and the wind catches it at once. The tangles will be nearly impossible to get out later. “So, which way for the crabs? I think…closer to the tide line,”

“You have to be careful near the tide line!” Luiza says, solemn. “It can get you by surprise if you’re not paying attention. Stay close to me, okay, Aunt Wyst?”

She laughs and nods, giving the girl’s hand a squeeze. “Of course I’ll be careful! I have you with me,” They seek out sticks first, and Wyst shows her how to coax crabs from their hidey holes and snatch them up in a blink. The full moon helps point them out.

Luiza laughs the entire time, running around Wyst as if connected by an invisible line; a fine string tugging at her fingers if she ever strays further than a quick run back. Other children gravitate towards her, their laughter bouncing back and forth and growing stronger, contagious, like a mirror reflecting a mirror reflecting a mirror. Wysteria chases them roaring and laughing with a hand full of wet sand, with some of it smudged across her cheeks and clothes. At every couple crabs, Luiza snatches the basket out of the Witch’s hands, testing its weight gleefully. Soon her legs are completely covered by mud. 

“What are you gonna do with them, Auntie?” Luiza asks, when her arms start buckling under the weight of their catch. Her hair blows at every direction on the wind, curls sprayed with sand and seawater. “Sell? Eat?” She waves at the crabs. “Keep as pets?”   
  
“I don’t have the heart to sell them. Not when so many others do,” She says, looking in at the collection they’ve gotten. It’s a hazardous display of pincers and excited, snapping claws. “I mostly cook with them. Maman likes the soup I make,” 

“Are you gonna cook with  _all_  of them?” Luiza asks. She tests the weight of the basket once more. “Can I keep some, Auntie?” 

“If Dad and Papa won’t mind, of course you may,” 

Looking up, Luiza scans their surroundings, leaning to the sides to try and see around Wyst. Finally, she spots what she’d been looking for. “How many can I keep, Auntie?” she asks, antsy, jumping on her feet as if she’s in a hurry.   
  
The witch puckers her lips like she’s thinking hard, and finally holds up three fingers. “Three. Be careful, they like to fight each other. If they aren’t playing nicely then stick with one,” She pulls out one of the mason jars and passes it to her guest with a grin. “Keep them in here. So they stay safe,”   
  
While Luiza goes about choosing her new pets, which she should have realized would happen, Wysteria takes the time to make a fire. It’s easy enough to do before the storm comes in. There’s dry wood scattered along the shore and seaweed for miles that was left by the tide. Wyst fumbles in her pockets for firestarters and kneels in the sand beside her kindling, humming to herself. “Do your Dad and Papa ever bring you at night?” The driftwood sends up lavender and blue flames, very nearly matching the color of her clothes. 

When Luiza doesn’t respond, Wyst turns around to look. The girl’s left the basket safely on top of a rock by her elbow, and is running up the beach towards the city, waving one arm over her head. A few feet ahead, two girls stop and turn to look. They appear to be sisters; both bearing that raggedy look of street children, walking hand-in-hand with a basket of their own. They smile at Luiza’s approach, as if they’ve known her for years rather than a few hours.

Breathless, her charge halts next to them. As Wyst watches, Luiza sticks out the mason jar towards the children, three fat crabs inside of it. The sisters blink, confused; then, Luiza points towards Wyst, says something else and offers the jar again. The older girl reddens, fumbling, and shakes her head no, but Luiza insists, nearly pushing the crabs into her arms. She catches it. A slow smile colors her face.

Grinning, Luiza throws her arms around her. She smacks a loud kiss against each of the girls’ cheeks, then turns around and hurries back. “Sorry, Aunt Wyst!” she pants, soon as she’s within hearing distance. “I didn’t want to lose them.”

“Friends of yours?” The Witch asks with a raised brow. “You could invite them for more, if you’d like,” She’s fumbling through the basket for the rest of her tools: more jars, several empty sachets, a white linen cloth to wrap around the kelp. “If they help gather the seaweed and the kelp then I’ll make a soup of it for them,”

“They had to get back to their parents,” Luiza says. She sounds disappointed, though, straining her neck to see if she spots them; but they’re gone. “But- but they said they come here a lot! So maybe we’ll see them again, right?” She kneels down next to Wyst; “They were gathering crabs for selling. Some kids do, to help their parents out. Dad told me.”

“I’m sure your Dad has met one or two on occasion,” She agrees. “Now, Luiza, did I ever tell you why you shouldn’t  _normally_  cook with a driftwood fire?” If she doesn’t cook the crabs soon they’ll claw their way free. Maman’s will need to go in a jar for safekeeping.

Grinning, Luiza shakes her head no. “Does it always light up this pretty color?”

“Driftwood does,” She prods carefully at the growing flame. “Normally it can make you very sick. The smoke and the fire, that is,” She lifts some seaweed and rubs it between her hands. White light encircles the plant and she tosses it into the flames. It’s devoured in a colorful display of gold and white sparks. The wood goes back to popping. “I think it’s safe enough now. Did you want to eat first, or gather some shells and kelp?”

Luiza doesn’t answer at first, too busy wondering at the magick that lept from Wyst’s fingers. “Auntie, you can do  _anything,”_ she says, marveled. “It’s amazing!”

“No,” She’s quick to argue, and rubs her hands together as if she’s taken a sudden chill. “Not anything. My magic is usually healing magic, and making water safe to drink or a fire safe to cook with is part of that I think. Without a plant though, I’m useless,” Wyst smiles slightly, eyes sparkling.

Luiza chuckles. “I doubt you’d ever be useless, Auntie,” she says. “Do we need the shells and kelp to cook?”

“The shells I’m using for a little girl who’s afraid of the water. She’s having dreams of drowning,” She pushes herself to her feet and shakes sand from her skirt before holding out her hand to Luiza. “The kelp is good to eat. It makes a nice salad,”

“Oh! Let’s look for the shells first, then,” Luiza says, holding on to Wyst’s hand with both of her own and pulling herself up.

They wander back and forth along the shoreline, racing after the receding waves to pluck shells from the sand. Together they find Auger and Cockle, the color of her sunflowers. Luiza rushes away from a crashing wave with fists full of tiny, tiny coquina shells. Wyst teases at tossing her into the sea only once, and they both end up soaking wet when her foot gets caught in the sand and she can’t right herself.

By the time they come back to the fire they’re both hungry and awed by the moonrise. Down the beach the Witches are singing. The storm stays along the horizon, throwing a tantrum of white lightning across indigo clouds, although now they can hear the mutter of far off thunder.  
  
Wyst cooks the crabs over the fire, taking care to kill them quickly first so that Luiza won’t be concerned. “When I was a girl, my mother taught me about some of the Witches she knew,” The waves crash behind her, and she can’t help but sway to the rhythm of the tide. “She said there were Weather Witches, who whispered to the wind and took charge of the thunderstorms,”

“Took  _charge_ of the thunderstorms?” Luiza repeats. She looks up at the sky, at the black and purple and the grey, and her dark eyes reflect it back almost seamlessly. Still entranced, she bites into her food without looking. “Can one person really do that, Aunt Wyst? Can anyone?” She swallows without lowering her gaze. “I thought storms didn’t listen to anyone.”

Tearing her eyes from the sky reluctantly, Luiza looks up at Wyst: “Where Dad grew up, sometimes it didn’t rain for months,” she says. “So Dad and his friends used to pretend they could magick the weather to make the water come back. But he told me no one could  _actually_  do it! That rainclouds don’t listen to anyone.” Then, lowering her voice: “Did you ever meet a Weather Witch, Auntie?”

“I’ve met lots of Witches,” She assures her, taking care with her own supper. It’s more of a snack really, but it will hold them over. “Some Witches like to dress up for it. They want people to know they’re powerful. Some Witches can turn into animals. I bet there are Witches in the ocean,” She finds a soft spot in the sand beside the little girl and scoots close. “I bet they take care of the fish, and have gardens for the sea stars,”

With a contented sigh, Luiza lets her eyes fall closed, and the film of Wyst’s words play behind them. “I bet that there are Witches that can do anything,” she says. “Not one Witch - but I bet everything you can think of, there’s a Witch that can do that somewhere. Don’t you think, Auntie?”

“Why not?” She stares out at the waves and wraps an arm around the little girl. “I think everyone has Magick,” Her toes burrow into the sand. “Some people are the best secret keepers. Some people know how to make someone else feel safe without even thinking about it. I think more people are Witches than anyone realizes,”

Letting her eyes fall closed, Luiza cozies up to Wyst, dropping her head to the Witch’s shoulder. She looks like a little Wicth herself: all sand and mud and dried sea salt in her dark clothes. Her hair flutters like a mantle behind her. You could almost mistake her for a fairy in the moonlight, if not for the steady human heat coming off her body, curled against Wyst’s side. “I like that,” she says. “I like thinking everyone has magick.”

“That’s why,” Her Aunt adds, brushing sand from the tip of her nose. “That’s why it isn’t hard to believe that you have magic. It’s easier to understand and control when you accept what it is,” Wyst has never trained a witch before. She’s never directed someone else’s magick. What if she does something wrong?

Beside her, Luiza fidgets. She sits up, frowning, then carefully looks over at Wyst, her mouth shaping into a small “o”: “Are you worried, Aunt Wyst?”

“Mhm,” Wyst leans back and digs her heels into the sand. She’ll never be able to fib to this girl again! “Want to try and guess why?”

Luiza frowns harder. She turns back to the water, looking at the restless waves with a squint so deep her nose wrinkles. Then, squeezes her eyes shut. She’s silent for long minutes, quieter than Wyst’s ever seen her. Then: “Me?”

Looking up at Wyst, Luiza asks, hesitant: “Are you worried about me?” And after a longer pause: “And my magick?”

“I’m concerned about teaching you magick,” She explains. “I don’t know that I’ve taught anyone much of anything, besides cooking,” Wyst sighs away a lock of hair from her eyes and carefully appraises her young charge. “Are you nervous?”

“Nervous?” Luiza repeats. She tilts her head thoughtfully. This is, truly, a child that doesn’t know the meaning of stage fright. “I don’t know about nervous. I’m worried sometimes.” True to form, her teeth gnaw at her lower lip. “I don’t mind feeling what everyone else is feeling. I think I can tell what’s mine and what isn’t - probably. But I don’t know if I like that everyone  _else_  feels what  _I’m_  feeling; what if  _they_  can’t tell the difference?” She sighs. “I don’t like that Papa and Dad get upset because of me being upset.”

It’s there, now that Wyst is looking for it: a melancholy that she can’t quite explain, a guilt that doesn’t really have reason. She puts on a wide smile and waits for it to be real. “Then that’s what we’ll practice on. You need to figure out how to build a wall,”

“A wall?” Luiza says. “To stop my feelings from getting on other people?”  
  
“Exactly! When you get good at a wall, we’ll change it to a screen. That way you can let in what you want,” She isn’t sure if the hope is her’s or not, but she’s grateful for it either way. “Can you imagine a wall? A big, strong, stone wall?”

“Like the inner city walls,” Luiza agrees. She squeezes her eyes close and fists her hand as if getting ready for a boxing match. “Yes!”

“Let’s try…let’s try when I was first starting. Picture yourself standing by the wall. Maybe try to touch it,” She stands up and fists her hands on her hips. “See what it feels like. You have to be familiar with it. As much as you can feel your own joy or sadness, feel the wall,”

Obediently, Luiza reaches forward, splaying her palms on the air. Her eyes stay closed, but she pictures it. Red brick, white lines crisscrossing, the dusty feel of bits coming off under her palms, and the warmth from the sun soaked in the stone. She nods to show Wyst she can see it.

“Perfect! I’m going to think of a simple emotion, try to make myself feel it, and you say what it is out loud. When you can’t tell, then we know you’ve made it big enough,” Wyst tries something small first, the loss of a large plant she’d been nurturing, and the beginnings of sadness push their cold fingers through her chest. “Well?”

Luiza peeks up at her with one eye. “You’re sad,” she says. “I can tell.”

Taking a deep breath, Luiza rights herself up, putting her hands in front of her harder; like trying to shove with all her strength. Her face scrunches up with concentration. Even her cheeks go pink. She pictures the wall again, down to the little greeny things that grow where it meets the floor, then imagines the walls are all around her. And nods: “Again.”

She considers the time she burned a full oven of bread that she’d meant for Oscar and Catherine’s picnic, the frustration and anger from having to feed the blackened loaves to a flock of gulls on the beach. It was horrible realizing that she’d wasted so much flour. She softens her features to not give any visual clues. “And now? A change?”  

Luiza stays silent for longer this time, unmoving. Then, she starts blinking, squinting like early morning. Her arms lower. “Are you– are you frustrated? Oh. Oh, you are.” She sighs. “I thought that was me at first, but it wasn’t.” Quick as ever, she rubs her hands, this time bringing them in like bracing for a punch. “Again.”

One thing you have to hand to Luiza; she’s tireless. Stubborn as a mule is the expression Pedro uses, and he’s entirely right when it comes down to it. Every time she lets something slips through, she tries again. And again.

The first few times don’t work out; then, maybe out of tiredness, Luiza’s tense shoulders start softening. Her face scrunches up less. And slowly Wyst’s feelings stop coming through. Slowly; ever, ever so slowly, one second at a time. Until finally–

“Oh,” Luiza breathes, and snaps her eyes wide open. “Oh,” she says again. “Oh, it’s  _quiet,_ Aunt Wyst!”

It shouldn’t be. If she’s catching what Wyst is feeling, she should be in tears. “Nothing? Only you?” She’s glad it isn’t getting through. “Now, Luiza love, how do  _you_  feel?”

Luiza cups her hands behind her ears, as if trying to listen better. She considers Wyst’s question. “Okay,” she tells her. “I feel okay. I’m a bit worried I’ll start feeling your feelings again, Auntie. So I’m concentrating.” She smiles at her, all white teeth in the dark. “But I feel fine.”

“That’s my girl!” She snatches her up to reward her with kisses and praise, and spins her twice for good measure. “Now we’ll try the other way. With your wall still up, try to make  _me_  feel something,”

“Then you sit!” Luiza demands, hopping up and tugging at Wyst’s hand. She stands with her bare feet set apart on the sand, her hands to her waist, and her hair blowing. Then, more gently: “Auntie, I think if I make you feel something, you won’t why you’re feeling that. So don’t be scared, okay?”

The older Witch nods. “Understood. Do your best, okay?”

Luiza smiles. Nods.

She closes her eyes. Pictures the wall again, the way it feels most comfortable - a well and at the top of it the canopy of trees and a sky so bright and so hot you can’t look towards it. She surrounds herself with it, feels the bottom of her soles wet. Then pulls at the first big emotion that tugs at her chest.

Oscar - sweaty and red-faced and snotty, and Luiza doesn’t care one bit, even if her cheek does feel feverish hot under her lips. Embarrassment swells in her belly like a spring. Heart fluttering like a released coil, Luiza opens her heart; and finds Wyst fanning herself. “Auntie?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine. Just a thought I had,” She waves her hand to cool her face. She doesn’t know why she’s thinking of the one time she made a situation worse instead of better. Why she can so perfectly recall the furious heat that rose in her cheeks when she discovered that she’d spread the chicken pox from one little girl through her entire family… _overnight._

Leaning forward, Luiza inspects her face better. “Auntie,” she says. “Are you embarrassed?”

“Well, yes, but it’s…” She pauses. “Luiza, are  _you_  embarrassed?” Could that be it? "Is that how the influence works?"

Luiza smiles, bashful. “I don’t know. I can only tell from my side.” She sways in the tip of her toes. “When I get things from someone else, I just feel them. I don’t know why I feel, I just do. Sometimes it’s sudden! Sometimes it’s slow and I don’t even notice until I think about it later.” She smiles a mischievous grin. “Did you feel embarrassed? All of a sudden? And you didn’t know why?”

“W-well I know  _why_ ,” She says uneasily. Talking about her failures is not a strong point. “What did you start thinking about?”

All at once Luiza’s face goes blotchy red: embarrassment darts out of her like a small explosion and hits Wyst right in the face, hot like a sunray. “ _Nothing!”_  she squeaks.

“Well, well think of something else!” Wysteria sputters, massaging her cheeks. “Otherwise we’re both going to boil right here on the beach,”

“Easy to  _say,”_  Luiza replies. Still burning, she turns around and runs to the waterline, spraying her face with cold water. “I’m okay. It’s fine.”

She gives Wyst a curious look. “You didn’t know why I was embarrassed?” she says. “Did I make you embarrassed about  _something?”_

Wysteria doesn’t bother lying about the ‘why’. She can guess easily enough. “I had a bad experience when I was just starting my career as a healer. It was horribly embarrassing to go to the family and apologize,”

Luiza nods solemnly. “I didn’t know that,” she says, sounding confused. “Did I make you think about that?” 

“I guess you did…” 

Luiza nods again, though her head seems to be far away at the moment. “I didn’t know I could do that,” she says. “When people make me feel embarrassed, I don’t think about embarrassing things. I just feel it.” 

“That’s interesting,” She muses as her face cools. “Let’s try something else,” Anything to get rid of the rest of the burn. “We’ll keep trying until it works,” 

It doesn’t.   
  
The storm has moved inland and a misting rain is nipping at the back of her neck. They’re alone on the beach, both of them exhausted, and she’s at once elated and exhausted and confused. “I think that’s enough for tonight,”    

Luiza’s response is a huge yawn. She’s young enough that the late hour has her sleep-walking, and she leans against Wyst’s side all noodleish and woobly. “Can we go to sleep?” 

“Absolutely, sweetie. Do you want me to carry you?” She loops her arm through the basket handle and holds out her other hand. “You did a wonderful job,”

Stubbornly, Luiza tries to right herself. She keeps a hand on Wyst’s hand for balance, though. “N-n-n-no,” she says. “I can walk back by myself.” A couple more steps, though: “Am I not too heavy for you, Auntie?”

“Of course not!” At once she’s maneuvering the basket to scoop the girl into her arms. She’s heavy for a moment, until she makes a shift here and transfers the weight there, and then she’s no longer tired. Luiza is nearly sleeping against her shoulder. “I think we’re dry enough to just fall into bed, don’t you?”

Luiza mumbles something into Wyst’s shoulder that’s probably acquiescence. The very next moment, she conks out.

The streets are empty and quiet. Here and there she nods a quiet ‘hello’ to a member of the guard, but otherwise she carries the girl home in silence. Once inside, she lays the girl on the bed and changes into a loose pair of pants and a flowing top : sand would likely end up coating Luiza’s hair. Then she climbs into bed beside her, and tucks the two of them in close. 

She figures exhaustion will keep her asleep. She figures nothing will haunt her dreams. She’s very, very wrong. 

The next morning, Luiza’s still deep asleep when the clock hits ten o’clock - so Wyst goes to wake her up. Still drowsy, the girl clings to her pillows. “What time is it?” she complains, blinking against the sun and squinting unhappily at it. “Is it morning?” 

With a great yawn, Luiza buries her head back under the sheets. “Aren’t you  _sleepy_ , Auntie?” she says, voice muffled from the fabric. 

“I’m exhausted, little love,” There’s a mug of something thick and dark in one hand, and it doesn’t smell at all appetizing. “But it’s almost ten, and I’m sure you want breakfast,”

There’s a beat, and then Luiza abruptly raises her head. Her hair is wild, entirely too cute for justice, but her face is scrunched up with worry. “Why are you exhausted, Auntie?” she asks. In a hurry, Luiza scrambles to sit, then towards Wyst, putting a hand to her forehead. “Are you okay? I–”

Her little face colors with confusion all over; lines edging between her eyebrows, and puzzlement clouding her warm brown eyes. “Auntie,” she says. “I can’t tell how you’re feeling.”

“Nothing at all?” Her eyes widen slightly in surprise. “Maybe that’s because I’m too tired. I’m not feeling much else…” She yawns and takes a wincing sip of her drink. “Come on, sweetie. Let’s wash up and eat something before your Papa comes to get you,”

But Luiza doesn’t move; she’s still squinting up at Wyst, considering her like one would a piece of art they don’t particularly understand. “It’s  _weird,”_  she says. “When I– it’s usually easy to figure _you_  out, Auntie.” Her eyes squint even further. “But when I try, it’s just– It’s like there’s nothing _there,_ I–”

With a gasp, Luiza’s eyes pop open wide. “Oh!” she breathes. “Oh! I  _know_  what it feels like!” Pointing victoriously at Wyst she says. “It feels just like when I made Lia mad with the friendship bracelet! Auntie, I can’t tell what you’re feeling because you’re feeling  _my_  feelings!”

“But you didn’t give me anyth-” She stops, looking at the sweat drenched pillow and the tangle of sheets. “Luiza, hand me your pillow,” Wyst sets her mug aside and holds out her hands.

In a burst of excitement, Luiza grabs for her pillow, pressing it against Wyst’s hands. “What’s it, Auntie? What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking you can put your magic into anything, like bracelets,” The pillow in her hands confirms her theory. “Or pillows and blankets,” She can feel a surge of anxiety through the fabric.

Luiza looks down at the pillow. “I put something in  _that?_ ” Carefully, she pokes at it. “But I was _sleeping.”_

“You were also dreaming,” She tosses the pillow to the floor, and pulls away the blankets. They’re so saturated with emotion she feels at once terrified, nauseous and excited. Wyst is soon making a pile of bedding, and muttering quietly to herself. “Try making me feel something on purpose now,”  

“Hmmm,” Luiza hops from the bed when all the fussing around dislodges her. Sorting through her emotions in search of one strong enough, she thinks;  _Dad could really take longer to arrive,_ and then focuses on that until she’s dreading the littlest creek from the hallway floorboards. “Is it working?”

She stands for a moment, considering, and finally shakes her hands. It’s impossible for her not to breathe a sigh of relief. “Nothing. Just tired,” Wyst laughs and stretches out the kinks of a terrible night’s sleep. “Perfect! That’s our solution, then,”

“What is?” Luiza asks. Worried, she looks down at her pillows. “Oh, no, Auntie, do you think I do that  _every night?”_  Fretting, she wriggles her hands, twisting her fingers around themselves. “I put my own sheets in the laundry basket, but Papa and Dad wash them - what if I’m giving them all those dreams?”

“That is a worry…” Carefully the witch wraps the ‘soiled’ blankets in a clean one and dumps them in an empty basket. “Well, how do you feel about talking with them about it? They love you very much, and I’m sure they would do anything to help,”

It’s a good thing Luiza can’t project on Wyst right now, because her face goes more tempestuous than last night’s storm. “I–” she says. Her mouth open and closes helplessly. “I– I don’t know.” She avoids Wyst’s eyes. “What if– what if they get mad? I must’ve been making them feel my feelings a lot without noticing, right? And I’ve been– feeling things they didn’t want me to know they were feeling. And that’s– that’s not nice, is it?”

And, ah. There it is. So this is why Luiza had been so reluctant to tell anyone of her magick. 

The truth of her words isn’t lost on Wyst - she knows only too well how people react to magick that touches on feelings and minds and perception, all those things considered sacred and out of reach for anyone but yourself. She knows power like this has to be handled with care. She knows Luiza’s right; that projecting and sensing other people’s feelings without their permission is not fair to them. 

She didn’t know Luiza, at the tall age of ten, could already sense all of this. 

Now isn’t the time to put comfort into cookies or cakes - she crouches to meet Luiza’s level and puts her hands carefully on her shoulders. Eye to eye. Witch to Witch. “Your Dad and Papa would not be mad about you telling them this. Luiza, this is who you  _are_. It’s as much you as your beautiful eyes or your laugh. This is how you were born, even if you’re only learning it now,”   
  
Wyst thinks carefully how to phrase the rest of it.   
  
“You didn’t know, sweetie. Now that you do, you’ll do things differently, right? We’ll work on making things for you to put your feelings in, and you’ll practice putting up that wall so other people have privacy. How does that sound?”

Worry still dances in Luiza’s brown eyes, but it’s not as crushing anymore. “Things for me to put feelings in?” she repeats. Then comprehension blooms through her features. “Like I do when I’m asleep? With the pillows?”

“Exactly like the pillows!” She grins. “Or your beautiful friendship bracelets. Maybe even bread for your Grandmother,” 

“Oh!” Luiza gasps, eyes going wider and wider. “Oh! Oh, I get it! If I put my feelings in things, they won’t get all over people! Right?”   
  
“Just right! I think you could even help me make candies. It’s a little more dangerous because you have to use hot sugar, but very simple. Would you like to?” 

“With good feelings,” Luiza says. Her face opens like the sunrise, her smile so wide she has to smudge her hands against her cranning cheeks. “And it wouldn’t be bad because people  _know_ there’s magick in your candies, Aunt Wyst!” 

“You are perfectly clever,” Her Auntie agrees, and seals the words with a kiss firmly planted on the top of her head. “I bet Papa and Daddy will be here soon. Let’s make breakfast for everyone, and think about whether you want to tell them today or not,”

Luiza lets her Aunt guide her back to the kitchen, skipping the whole way, excitement coming off her so strong even Wyst can feel a very slight tingle of it. “Let’s tell them now!”

“Tell us what?”

Wyst stops so abruptly Luiza goes face first against her backside. From the door, Pedro winces apologetically. “Oopsie daisy! Sorry, tip tot.” Looking up a the witch he gives her another bashful smile and points at the keyhole. “Sorry, Wyst, the door was unlocked.” 

“I guess we slept in later than we thought,” She laughs to keep the mood light, hoping it will help the little girl’s anxiety. “How was your date?” 

If it was anyone else, the way Pedro goes red would be a tell of a truly spicy night indeed; but because this is Pedro, that might mean they held hands and gazed into each other’s eyes a lot. “It went very well, thank you,” Pedro says at last, impeccably polite. “And your night at the beach? Did you two have fun?” 

Wyst looks to Luiza and raises her eyebrows. “We got very sandy,” She offers first. “Luiza had to rescue me from the waves,” 

“We hunted crabs!” Luiza says, and runs to Pedro, letting go of Wyst’s hand. Despite the fact she’s rather tall for her age and not wanting in matter of muscles, Pedro pulls her into his lap as if she weighs nothing at all. He smudges a kiss against her cheek. “And we got shells and seaweed and made food! It was awesome, Dad!” Leaning over Pedro’s shoulder, Luiza inspects the hallway behind him. “Where’s Papa, Dad?”

“Papa’s taming your grandpères formidable fury, tip tot,” Pedro says. Stepping in, he closes the door one-handed before putting Luiza down. “He swears someone’s been stealing his prized tomatoes, and the neighbor’s to blame. Papa had to intervene before carrots became involved. You know what happens when your grandpère starts with the carrots.”

Giggling, Luiza nods, as if that makes perfectly good sense; Wyst is left to wonder what exactly has the girl’s grandpère been doing to those poor carrots. “Aunt Wyst said we were gonna make breakfast,” she says. “ _Can we_ , Dad?”

“Oh, was that the plan?” Pedro asks. He shoots Wyst a look; the quintessential parental question of, is this true or is my kid having ideas?

“It was, we just meant to have it done already. We watched the storm for a while, and we were both so tired we slept right through the morning,” She gives Pedro the smile that says yes, your daughter’s trustworthy. Then she starts back to the kitchen. “Muffins and omelettes? Have you eaten, Pedro?”

“Oh, actually–” She can  _hear_  the moment Pedro catches Luiza’s eyes. “–nnnooo, I haven’t eaten yet!”

“Perfect! Luiza, show your Dad where to find the mint. I should have some rosemary for the eggs, too,” She adds with a wink, and twists her long hair into some semblance of order so it doesn’t fall into the food.

Grabbing her Dad’s hands, Luiza drags him to the garden so fast he nearly trips over his own feet. Wyst can hear them talking, the girl pointing out the plants she knows and rattling off about them while Pedro nods and makes serious faces. He doesn’t ask what she had to tell him. And even though Luiza’s got energy coming off her pores, Pedro doesn’t seem to be getting affected. He seems as serene as he ever looks.

Wysteria takes her time getting things together in her kitchen. The mixing bowls, the spoons, everything from flour to dried fruit to milk. If she cranes her neck just right she can get a view through the window at the duo in her garden. It makes her miss the bustle of Maman’s home, the clatter of people and the constant in and out. “Some sage, if it’s ready!” She calls as she warms the oven.

Leaving her Dad kneeling in the dirt with strict instructions, Luiza comes running in, wedging herself under Wyst’s arm. “Auntie,” she calls in a whisper. Her face is all secretive. “Don’t tell Dad yet. I– I’m gonna tell him.” She nods briskly as if to prove how serious she’s being. “I wanna tell him. Him and Papa. I think– I’m gonna tell grandmère first.”

She tugs at Wyst’s elbow to make her bend - only a little, that’s how tall she’s getting - then whisper in her ear. “I think grandmère’s who I got magick from. But shhh! That’s a secret.”

Smiling wilder, Luiza pulls back again. “I’ll tell her first, then we’ll tell Dad and Papa. Okay?”

Her grin is infectious, and the older Witch can’t help but mirror it. “It’s your gift to tell, little love. Shall we make extra for grandmère then?” The poor woman will be swimming in baked goods. “Then you’ll have two lovely surprises to share with her,”

“Can we? Dad and I can go there after breakfast,” Luiza says. Reaching out, she gathers her bed hair up in a bun and snaps a tie around it. “Let me see if Dad is doing it right!” 

Turning, Luiza runs back towards the garden, but halfway there she suddenly halts. “Aunt Wyst?” 

“Mmm?” She’s already measuring out extra flour, and hoping her search for extra butter isn’t in vain. “Yes, sweetie?” 

Turning on her heels, Luiza throws her arms around Wyst so hard it nearly knocks the woman over. Pressing her cheek against the Witch’s back, she says: “Thank you,” then, in a blink, goes out the door again. 

Wyst waits until Luiza is back in the garden to wipe away the tears that are peeking from between her lashes. 

Later as she’s working she’ll wonder how the conversations go; first with a grandmother who’s been quiet about her gift, then with two fathers with so much love between them that they’ve given the world a little girl with extra to share. She’ll hear about it over weeding, from a little Witch learning how truly strong she is, and when she offers the position of ‘apprentice candy maker’ to that same little witch, she’ll get another tear prickling hug.   
  
This time, she won’t bother to hide them.


End file.
